


Vestigium: The Fate of Humanity In An Untold Era

by nomorenumbers



Series: Vestigium [1]
Category: Vestigium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:40:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24392935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomorenumbers/pseuds/nomorenumbers
Summary: The world has gone stagnant, immobile.Once, in some unknown time long ago, we dominated this world and the worlds beneath it, and all knelt under the common banner of Humanity. We sent ship after ship to the outer darkness, beyond the light of our Mother Star, and none returned. For a time, we grew proud and courageous, and for a time, we truly believed we were gods of the material world.The universe did not agree.Some wicked horror beyond our comprehension set Humanity in its place, subdued it, and beat it into submission till it was little more than a vestige of its former self.It was a travesty, and now the tragic extent of mankind's sin is still reverberating throughout the cosmos to now.Upon the planet of Venus, the Cytherean City-States deny that Humanity had ever fallen, and attempt to piece together the fleeting remnants of the opulent Humanity that once held the entire system in its fist.
Series: Vestigium [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761379





	Vestigium: The Fate of Humanity In An Untold Era

The elevator shook with a start as it slowly ascended further and further into the dark and depraved city- the countless pipes and portholes decorating this vast array of steel and iron. Smoke clouded at the roof of the vast cave as it slowly filtered into the many vents set upon the infinite ceiling. Millions, if not billions of men and women, seeming as little more than ants from her perspective, dotted the depressing landscape, herding themselves and each other like cattle to their designated destinations. Little difference could be seen between them- gender, hair, eyes, mouth, all hidden beneath their black suits. They seemed like little more than apparitions or ghosts- not in the sense that the body has died as the soul lives on, but that the soul has rotted away, leaving an unholy stench in the heart of these husks that now wander this oppressive atmosphere.

Unabated, the elevator continued on, the glass windows on its sides mirrors to an industrialized hell- the Cythereans had no penchant for decorative architecture or art- instead, they found themselves attracted to efficiency- finding glory and beauty in a perfectly assembled and manufactured machine, and that was evident in all that they did. They saw power in the iron that was the bedrock of their civilization, and through that power they found salvation from the wicked flesh that encumbered them. The guards on each side of her wore thick, black armor and gear, masks hiding their expression, serving purposes beyond the purported filtering of gas from the mucky air. It, in its remarkable blandness and emptiness, bore the face of a demon, not of greed or of malice, but of undiluted oppression, as dull as the mind within.

The Cythereans find themselves not suffering from any sort of emotion but from the lack of it. They have no anger, no hatred, no greed nor wants, every need met at the absolute minimum. They are empty. And yet, on the battlefield, they fight with zealous valor, and opposing that, cold efficiency. The passion they exert as they tear through the enemy is remarkable, and yet none of that can be seen here in this palace of machinery. Ironic that they can only find peace on a battlefield- the cold feel of a gun in their hands their pathway to genuine emotion. Perhaps that is what they are designed for- they crave battle for the chance of feeling anything at all. It is a sad life, but they would never know that, for there is no room for sadness, only the endless labor ahead, never ceasing. never pausing, except to indulge in the wants of the flesh for sustenance and sleep.

The elevator shuddered as it reached its destination. While Kritha found herself thrown off balance from the force of the impact, the guards were unaffected in almost uncanny indifference. The doors slowly came open, and she saw before her a grand hall, filled, not with art of normal beauty, but of cogs and pulleys, twisting and turning, clicking and contorting as they filled the otherwise oppressive silence with an almost constant, but not consistent, sound of ticking and churning gears.

At the end of it, she saw a massive throne, wires and esoteric machinery surrounding and encompassing it, every cord connected to a _thing_ that sat upon it.

To ascribe humanity to this _thing_ would be folly- in fact, describing it as anything other than machine would be laughable were it not for the minuscule fragments of flesh and bone in its massive frame. It is layer upon layer of machinery stacked upon a distant fragment of a man, hidden beneath thousands of thousands of cybernetic implants, meant to drag on the “life” of this _thing._ It is a tragedy, the sins of the Cythereans brought to their peak. This is their objective and their damnation.

As Kritha approached the throne at the behest of the guards behind her, the creature began to speak. It did not sound like a human voice, but rather a series of sounds, clicks, and whirrs, assembled and combined into a horrid song that supposedly resembled speech.

“Mmmm…” Kritha was unsure if that was the thing thinking out loud or rather the ambiance of his extensive prosthesis. “This…thing you bring before me…What is it?” The guards do not respond. “I… _jest,_ forgive…me.” He pauses constantly, dragging on certain words. Every syllable comes from a different source in his body. “You are a fool to come here. I am the lord of this realm, and you thought you could escape me? I am all that encompasses this place. I am the machine, the walls, the ceiling, the very _floor_ you walk upon is a part of me. As soon as you approached the atmosphere of my realm I could sense your very heart beating, the sickening thud of flesh against flesh.”

“I am not of this place.”

A laugh emanates from somewhere within the creature. “You think yourself separate from the whole. A foolish notion. You are Cytherean, you are one of the billions whose flesh was wrought here. You, like me, are a part of this place.”

Kritha pauses. The thing stares at her with hundreds of eyes, of which only one is of flesh and blood, although its milky appearance suggests it serves no purpose other than being a keepsake of his withered body, preserved beyond what should be feasibly possible.

“So- what is it, then?” Kritha stepped forward, defiant despite the chains binding her arms to her back. “You could’ve killed me long ago. What do you want?”

"What abrasive audacity."

"You test me, machine. Answer me or I'll scrap you for parts."

“You threaten me with death, but I cannot die. The Machine is immortal. Unlike the other cowards in this place, I still maintain the form my Lord-In-Iron hath wrought for me. It is perfection, holy. All thanks to my devotion to my Lord.”

Slowly, every limb from his carapace extends outwards, arms outstretched to the ceiling, lights mounted upon him beaming brightly as a voice resonating from every direction rings out, louder than the thunder synonymous with Venus’ cruel atmosphere,

“I

AM

**MAMMON**.

RULER OF THE SANDS OF CYTHEREA BY THE **WILL** OF THE IRON INCARNATE. I AM THE _EMISSARY_ OF VENUS HERSELF, BOUND FOREVER, AS IS MY DUTY. I WAS FORGED BY THE SAME FORCE THAT SET THE **STARS IN PLACE** AND YOU. WILL. **_KNEEL._** ”

Kritha was grabbed by the guards and thrown to the ground, and she, recovering, rose to her knees before being held there, head forced down to look upon the sterile ground defiled by her presence.

The grand display soon ends as Mammon reverts to his neutral, albeit imposing, stance upon his throne.

“Now, _child_ ” he leans further towards Kritha. “With what authority do you speak? What power in this world gives you the gall- nay, the _audacity_ to speak to me with such damning pride?”

Kritha, intimidated, falls back, confidence hurt, limping backward like a wounded animal, before rising to her feet once more.

“I-…I ask you to tell me for what purpose you have brought me here.”

Mammon lets out a sort of hiss, perhaps intended to be a sigh, as various pipes and vents within his body let out steam.

“Mmmm. Of course, child.”

Mammon shifts a little as an arm extends outward from deep within his body. At the end, a legitimate human hand sits, although doubtless operated by machinery within it. Another remnant preserved. Within its grip is a long sheet of paper. Mammon glances at it momentarily as it then rotates towards Kritha and lowers itself to her eye level.

It is a picture of people departing an atmospheric personnel-loader craft- among them, albeit with some difficulty, one can see herself, rifle upon her back, mid-stride. Surrounding the craft is flora covering every nook and cranny, the green almost palpable from the otherwise black-and-white image.

“You went to Earth. More importantly, you came _back_ to Venus. _Alive_. I hope you understand the significance of this.”

“I do. And I also understand that means you can’t kill me. I’m too valuable now, aren’t I?”

A grumble- or, at least, that is what she assumes it to be, vibrates across the room.

“ _Yeeeesss._ And you should not let pride make your decisions, for I assure you there are ways of motivating you beyond the threat of death, child.”

“And wouldn’t you like to know just what I found- or how?”

The Jurisdicator slowly extended its upper body from its frame, reaching further outward, like a hermit crab from its shell. Layers went out and stopped short, as Mammon’s actual body presented itself.

It was little more than the upper torso and above- everything below that slowly transitioned from flesh to steel as a mechanical bridge to the remainder of his form resting upon the throne. His right arm was removed and replaced with a robotic one, only his right hand remained, covering it like a sleeve. His left arm hung limp at his side, hand removed, and his head was old, bald, and rotted, and did not contain his legitimate brain which was likely sheltered in a more sterile and well-defended area within his body. This was all that remained of Mammon, or, at least, what Kritha considered Mammon.

His one true eye- while blind- looked at her with more precision and depth than any of his mechanical organs ever could.

“There are secrets in this place. Old ritual created before even I tread this sacred ground. There are means of extracting information, _child,_ tearing truth from the fibrous membrane within your cranium. I can reduce you to a slavering shell, if I am so inclined, to reduce you to little more than an animal after I have removed the fragments of your memory that prove useful.”

He slowly rose upwards and back into his shell.

“Yet- I am a merciful god, and I feel that would not be entirely beneficial to our purposes. I know well the benefit of keeping you alive, nevermind the likely uproar such procedures will cause. So- to a limited degree- yes, I want to keep you alive. Do not think that this is from any sort of respect or compassion- I despise you, yet I am not so inclined to give in to the hateful desires of the flesh.”

Kritha nods. “So what now?”

“Mmmm. Yes. You, alongside some of our soldiers, will go to Earth. You will guide them and work alongside them in recovering certain pieces of ancient technology, of which you are not cleared to know. That is the simple summary.”

“How am I expected to find something I do not know? I don’t even know what this technology will even look like.”

“Mmmm. Your comrades will be well informed of the subject. You will be given the supposed location and a general description of their appearance, but it is in both of our best interests to not know the nature of these…artifacts.”

Kritha shrugged. “I suppose not.”

“Consider this a mercy, child. Cythereans, as you likely know by now, are not inclined to spare traitors, criminals, or heretics, of which you, of all people, fall into every category. It is only by my power you remain alive, for surely those such as Calypso would prefer your head on a platter.”

“Calypso doesn’t worry me.”

“And I am sure you believe that, too. A more detailed debrief will be given to you later. For now, these two-” Mammon points with several of his hands towards the guards. “Will escort you to your cell, and ensure you remain there, until the ship and the team is prepared. I estimate the process won’t take longer than a dyn.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! This is just a snippet of an overarching story I've been working on for a bit- it's not a very good introduction or anything, but I just wanted to get this out there. Thanks for reading, and criticism would be greatly appreciated.


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